THE DOMINANT MALE 



, ESSJYS AND PLAYS 




ARNOLD DALY 




Class 



Book ^ 4.^.tT^( 
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CQEffilGHT DEPOSm 



THE 
DOMINANT MALE 



THE 

DOMINANT MALE 

ESSATS AND PLATS 



BY 

ARNOLD DALY 




NEW YORK 

MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 
1921 






COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY 
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 



THE PLIMPTON PRESS 
NORWOOD 'M: ASS -U-S -A 



MAR 3U 1^21 
0)CI.A611410 



CI 



J- 



R. L. 

AN INSIGNIFICANT TRIBUTE TO 

AN ACT OF VERY GREAT 

UNSELFISH DEVOTION 



CONTENTS 

The Dominant Male, ii 

Playing Golf, 32 

Father and Son, 41 

James Stephens — An Appreciation, 50 

Democracy's King, 56 

Why Shakespeare's Plays Could Only Have Been 

Written by an Actor, 71 
Between Ourselves, 83 
Artistic Reasoning, 92 
Gossip, 100 
Letters — From and To the Author, 102 



Thanks are due to "Harper's Bazar" 
and "Vanity Fair'' for permission to 
reprint "Between Ourselves" from 
"Harper's Bazar," and "James Ste- 
phens — An Appreciation" and "Why 
Shakespeare's Plays Could Only Have 
Been Written by an Actor" from 
"Vanity Fair." 



THE 
DOMINANT MALE 

A Comment on Suffrage 
In One Act 



THE DOMINANT MALE 

Cast 

A MAN A WOMAN A WAITER 

Scene I 

Scene: A lonely hut on a mountain side 
in America. 

The play opens with the man crouching over 
a miserable fire in a very small and decidedly 
ill-kept room. A gun is in a corner of the room 
and a belt containing a revolver lies thrown up 
on the table. One or two wild skins are on the 
floor and a couple of smaller ones tacked on the 
walls. A half dozen very frayed books are 
placed in a pathetic looking rack on the wall. 
There is a door in the upper left hand corner of 
the room and below the door is a small window 
which is rather heavily blurred with snow. 
After the curtain rises the man starts as though 
he had heard an unusual sound. As he listens 
a low moaning is heard and as he turns up the 
room the moaning increases and something is 
heard falling heavily against the door. He 
strides towards it and pulls it quickly open. 



Then out of the night, ushered in with a fanfare 
of wailing snow flakes, the body of a woman 
tumbles on the floor. The wind, which had been 
howling mournfully, now rises on a keen note 
as though angry with defeat. The man quickly 
picks her up, closes the door, then carries her 
to the fire and puts her in the chair he had been 
occupying, which, by the way, is the one com- 
fortable article of furniture in the room. He 
then takes a glass and bottle from the cupboard, 
pours out a small drink and rubbing her hands 
gently at the same time he says: 

THE MAN 

That's the idea, don't try for a minute, 
take your time. 

[^Giving her drink'] 

Only, after you're rested I'd be curious to 
know what you're doing roaming around on 
the top of Cato's Ridge at eleven o'clock at 
night. It's not very strange of course, not 
much stranger than seeing Saint Peter buy- 
ing bonnets on the Rue de la Paix, or the 
Devil swinging incense on a Saint's Day. 
I've heard of odd things happening, sister, 
but you've rather pulled the big surprise. 
It's even funnier than my finding gold and 
I've been looking for that for years. What's 
the idea.? 



[The girl has recovered enough to smile at his 
attempts to cheer her^ 

THE GIRL 

Tisn't quite the correct hour for even an 
informal call, is it? 

THE MAN {smiling} 

Not exactly. However, in these parts 
we're just a trifle — informal — sorry I can't 
offer you a cigarette — I've only got — [In- 
dicates pipe~], 

THE GIRL [coollyl^ 

Thanks, I have some. 

[Takes cigarette case from pocket. He holds 
match to light her cigarette during jollow- 
ing speech'] 

THE MAN 

Judging by your dress the idea seems to be 
you've been riding. 

THE GIRL [grimly] 
A little — 

THE MAN 

It's a pretty dress — not quite the sort they 
wear around here though. The last time I 
saw a costume like that was — but that's 
not the point. I'm curious to know how and 



why you drop from the clouds, out of the 
storm, into the hut of a lonely disappointed, 
miserable, would-be miner like myself. 

THE GIRL 

It's really much simpler than it appears 

— do you know the Elkin ranch ? 

THE MAN 

In the Samoa Valley — of course. 

THE GIRL 

Well, my brother and I are visiting them 

— Sally Elkins was my room-mate at school. 
This morning Wally and I — Wally is my 
brother, you know — well, we started out 
for a ride and we stopped at such a quaint 
old place for lunch — some Mexican name 
I've forgotten. Anyhow after lunch we 
thought we could ride on a little further and 
make a detour, instead of riding back over 
the same road — the old Mexican told us 
that we could. So off we started — we took 
the first turning to the right — I remember 
distinctly that was what he told us to do, 
and then we rode on and on. It was very 
beautiful — so very beautiful and calm — 
with such a strange sense of grandeur, that 
we felt that it didn't matter if we never 
turned back — something seemed to woo us 



on — a strange elusive silent appeal — you 
know what I mean — you see, Fve only 
ridden in the East before. 

THE MAN 

I understand. 

THE GIRL 

Finally we came to where two roads forked 
— Wally thought that I had better wait 
while he went forward and investigated. 
Well, there I waited, and waited, and waited. 
Finally my patience gave out and I followed 
down the road he had taken — only to dis- 
cover after riding about half a mile that I 
was in a quandary again. Once more two 
roads faced me. In desperation I chose the 
one to the left this time and rode on calling 
for Wally, but it must have been the wrong 
trail. Then the twilight fell and with it 
came the snow — quietly at first — it fell so 
softly, in great flakes. It seemed as though 
God was opening his hand and dropping an 
anodyne to send a restless stupid world to 
sleep. Before me through the white snow 
the mountains appeared like a huge purple 
coverlet. Around me the red woods seemed 
to stand like great friendly sentinels, and my 
spirit whispered — Rest, Rest, Rest, Nature 
will cover and guard you, so potent was the 

CIS 3 



charm that I had to make an effort to con- 
tinue. A great sob rose in my throat and I 
realized that the beauty of the night was 
choking me. Then I cried with the joy of it 
all. I didn't care where I was or what hap- 
pened to me, and so I rode on. The snow 
fell more rapidly now — as it grew darker 
the wind began to moan around me and I 
felt afraid. I realized the horse was climb- 
ing the mountain and wondered where he 
was taking me. On and on and on he went 
until it seemed that I had ridden since the 
beginning of time. Now he stumbled and I 
was nearly thrown — no, he's up again — a 
branch of a tree sweeps my hat off and I 
bend lower in the saddle realizing that if I 
fall it may mean a thousand feet. Finally 
before me I saw a light and urged the horse 
forward. Oh, if I could only tell you what 
that light meant to me ! I couldn't wait — I 
slipped from the saddle and ran forward. 
Then, just as I reached the door, things 
seemed to turn around and — and that's all 
I remember. 

THE MAN 

[_Moving to the window'] 
You've had a trying time. 
\_Peering out the window] 

i:i63 



The horse is all right — he's found his way 
to the shed. I'll go out presently and un- 
saddle him. 

THE GIRL [jtarting up] 
Oh, you mustn't do that — After he's had 
a little rest I must start back. Wally will 
be worried to death. 

THE MAN 

Start back.? Have you any idea how far 
it is to the Elkins ranch? 

THE GIRL 

I'm afraid not. 

THE MAN \jmiling] 
It's fifty miles. You could make it in a 
day in fine weather. Of course with this 
storm its impossible. 

THE GIRL [^gasping] 
Impossible ! 

THE MAN 

Surely. 

[_Again looks out window'] 

If Fm any judge you'll be lucky if you get 
out of here in three days, and if she gets any 
worse, why you may be held up for two weeks 
— maybe a month. 

117 2 



THE GIRL [horrified'] 
You're joking. 

THE MAN 

No, there's nothing very funny about one 
of these storms. 

THE GIRL 

But I can't Uve here for three days — why 
how — how — 

THE MAN 

I don't see what else there is to do. I'll 
make you as comfortable as I can. 

THE GIRL 

But — but — where will you sleep } 

THE MAN 

I'm afraid I'll have to bunk here also, 
unless of course you want me to sleep in the 
snow. 

THE GIRL \jonfusedly'] 

No, no, of course not — only — well, dear 
me, I don't know what to say. 

THE MAN 

Catastrophes do destroy conventions, don't 
they? 

THE GIRL 

What will people think? 



THE MAN [laughing] 
Fear of our neighbor's opinion, eh? The 
ruler of the world. 

THE GIRL 

What is? 

THE MAN 

The emotion that governs you now, — 
Fear — it comes first — the sentimentalist 
would tell you that love is all — the Finan- 
cier, Ambition — the soldier, duty and the 
world will cry in unison — Honor — but they 
are all empty words in comparison with fear. 
Fear of our neighbor's opinion — that's what 
governs us all in the end. 

THE GIRL 

It sounds very cynical. 

THE MAN 

Does it? That's strange then, from an 
optimist. For surely a man is an optimist 
who spends four years in these dreary moun- 
tains in the silly pursuit of gold — it wasn't 
so hard at first ; I had a partner for two 
years, but sense came to his rescue and he 
gave it up. I persisted — there's gold here 
and I'll find it I said — and I won't leave 
these cursed mountains until I do. 



\JIe crosses and fills his pipe, then sits near 
girl on a low stool^ 

THE GIRL 

Why do you curse the mountains — they 
are beautiful. 

THE MAN 

That's what every tourist thinks — and of 
course they are for a while — a week or two 
— even a month, but live in them always — 
as I have — for four years, hemmed in often 
by the storm as we are now, caught like a 
rat in a trap with nothing but that dreary 
white wall outside staring one in the face — 
staring so contemptuously — finally hunger 
drives you forth and death bids you welcome 
if you miss your footing by half an inch and 
slip in a friendly looking crevice, or if its 
fine the sun will burn you mercilessly in the 
day and at night the cold will seek your very 
heart. 

\_Now his voice sinks to a whisper as tho he 
were confessing something^ 

But worst of all constantly they will re- 
mind you of your own insignificance, each 
day making you feel smaller — for each day 
they appear greater — so silent — so mas- 
sive — so impenetrable — so constant and 
always the same with huge stone eyes and 

1:203 



cold glistening face staring at the sun defi- 
antly. Live here if you would know Dante's 
inferno. 

THE GIRL 

{^Looking at him sharply, speaks quietly'] 
You need a change — new surroundings — 
why don't you go East? 

THE MAN {javagely"] 

I came for gold and I'll not leave without 
it — it's here and I'll find it. If I fail, the 
buzzards can croak their triumph — they may 
even if I win, for the chase has made me weary 
and I fear that my palate has become stale 
and alas, I may find the gold indigestible. 

[Then, with a sudden change, lashing himself 
into a fury with the memory of what he has 
suffered^ 

If you only knew what it means to be alone 
for two years in this desolate hell, — I've 
read those books \j)ointing to bookshelves'} 
until I've worn them out. I could almost 
quote them word for word — sometimes I'd 
attempt to send for more, but the silence had 
sung a drooning song in my ears that made 
all mental effort an apathetic useless gesture 
— the mountains each day seemed to press 
closer around me until I felt that if I reached 
into my body and dragged out my heart I'd 



grasp only a dried withered husk — the world 
seemed far away. I lived in an empty mean- 
ingless space — nothing was real — 

[He stops — a thought has struck him — he 
looks at her keenly — then laughs ironically^ 

THE GIRL 

What's that for? 

THE MAN 

It's just Struck me that if you hadn't taken 
the wrong trail, I'd still be mooning over 
my loneliness — funny thing accident — some 
people call it fate; after all, you are real 

— wonderfully real and you've got to stay 
here until the storm clears — yes, even after 

— until the trail is safe — 

\_A thought strikes him — he speaks slowly 

nozu^ 
And then you'll leave — go back — the 
loneliness will come again — unless • — 

THE GIRL 

Unless what? 

THE MAN 

Unless I keep you here. 

THE GIRL 

You're joking. 

1:223 



THE MAN [_grimly'] 
Vm not. 

THE GIRL \^laughs2 

This isn't melodrama — of course, with the 
storm and the hut on the mountain side I 
know it looks like it — but it isn't — it's life 

— it's real — you've been very kind — after 
all, you're a gentleman, not a border ruffian. 

THE MAN 

I wonder if there is any difference between 
the two — In certain situations I fancy not 

— as you say, it's life — it's real. — Well, 
here we are — we two — you, a beautiful 
girl — I wonder if you know how beautiful 
you are sitting there — and I a visionary — a 
dealer in dreams — ^The gold up to now has 
been a phantom — to date my life is a failure. 

— I would not count it so if I held you in 
my arms — think of it — why should I let 
you go — ^the one real, beautiful thing I've 
known ? 

THE GIRL \jndignantly2 
Why — 

THE MAN 

Oh, I know what you would say — your 
brother will eventually find us and shoot 
me — perhaps — that is if I don't shoot first 
1:233 



— or perhaps you think you could appeal to 
my sense of pity — what a fool Fd be — 
cheat myself — forego a great reality for an 
attitude — No, I've made up my mind — 
ril live this night and perhaps — who knows 

— tomorrow I may see the mountains — as 
you do — beautiful — 

{He rises — she starts to her feet terror- 
stricken — her eyes staring — he advances 
toward her slowly as 



THE CURTAIN DESCENDS 



iH'} 



Scene II 

Scene : The exterior of a hotel at a French 
watering resort — Twenty-three years later. 

As the curtain rises we discover the heroine 
of the first scene sitting at the left side of a 
table placed a little to the left center of stage — 
the table is set for two — an attentive waiter 
stands back of the table awaiting Madame'' s 
commands — she is busily reading letters — a 
cablegram lies amongst the letters — she has 
read — she is still a good-looking woman — 
stout now and comfortable looking^ though a 
trifle formidable — with a decidedly command- 
ing air — glasses add the glacial touch that 
make her first cousin to a bank President. 
The waiter is the typical well bred sort one finds 
in a first class French resort — the back drop 
showing the country side is sufficient excuse 
for any tourist. 

THE WAITER 

I placed Madame's table in this secluded 
corner so that Monsieur would not be dis- 
turbed — yesterday I noticed that the other 
guests stared so when you had dejeuner on 
the terrace. Monsieur was annoyed, but 
he must forgive — their curiosity is natural 



— loo million — Mon Dieu ! — Madame, is 
it possible? 

SHE \jeading letter^ 
I daresay I never counted it. 

WAITER 

And to get it all out of the ground — a gold 
mine — it's miraculous — 

SHE 

A gold mine gives out finally — your min- 
eral springs never do — I'd rather own — 
those. 

WAITER 

Madame is pleased to joke — 



SHE 

I never joke — only common people do — 
>u remember your orders — 



WAITER 

Out — Out — Madame — Monsieur is not 
to have any coffee — nothing but the slice 
of cold ham — a glass of milk and dry toast. 
It shall be as Madame orders — you may 
depend upon me — And Monsieur may de- 
pend upon the Doctor and our famous 
waters — He will soon be himself again. 



SHE 

Let us hope so. 

]^He comes from the entrance to the hotel which 
is on the right side of the stage, A glance 
tells us that here we have one who has 
lived not wisely hut too welL {The waiter 
obsequiously places chair for him and then 
exits into hotel.) Gout has laid its heavy 
hand upon him — he looks all of his fifty -five 
years and a trifle more — a practical look- 
ing cane supports his progress toward the 
table — his right foot is bandaged and 
covered with a comfortable house slipper — 
as he advances and sits right of table she 
speaks'] 

SHE 

There is a telegram from Jack — he's 
motoring from Paris to spend a few days with 
us, says he wants to help us celebrate — I 
suppose you know what tomorrow is — 

[He looks up inquiringly] 

No, of course you've forgotten. 

\_He looks startled, starts to speak — she 
continues] 

Don't tell me that it's Wednesday — I 
know that — I mean, have you any idea 
what your son is coming to celebrate? 
Naturally not — well, it's the twenty-third 



anniversary of our marriage — I don't mean 
our first vulgar marriage in that common hut 
— the very memory of that half drunken 
traveling parson makes me faint — I mean 
our marriage in the East at St. Thomas' — 
amongst my people — after you had struck 
oil — as you termed it — Oh ! the memory of 
that first hideous ceremony; sometimes I 
wake in the night — shaking with fear think- 
ing that some day Violet or Jack will dis- 
cover the secret of that first loathsome wed- 
ding. By the way, there is a letter from 
Violet — she asks if she may join us for her 
holiday — she complains that Vassar is so 
lonely since Diana Van Renselaer left. I 
think, however, that she had better spend 
her summer with the Draytons. Young 
Frank will be home his mother writes me — 
and I think they had better see something 
of each other — it would be an excellent 
match. 

[The waiter returns with and serves petit 
dejeuner of thin slice of ham — dry toast 
and glass of milk and immediately retires 
upstage within calf} 
[The Man looks at the milk, then up at his 
mentor as a stricken deer would look at his 
executioner — She glares severely and con- 
tinues her monologue'} 
t28 2 



SHE 

I hope it will not be necessary to remind 
you that you are under no circumstances to 
ask for coffee. The doctor says that if you 
disobey again he will throw up the case. 
Yesterday he saw you smoking outside the 
casino — you know its bad for you — besides 
which it's a filthy habit — what you can see 
in it is beyond me. I need hardly tell you 
that its thoroughly absurd, even childish to 
come here, burying me in this outlandish 
place for three weeks unless you intend to 
take your cure seriously. Henri told him 
that yesterday morning you insisted on ham 
and eggs — ham and eggs in July — no 
wonder you are ill, but there — why talk 
sense to a man about food — when I think 
of what you ate and drank in all these years, 
I wonder that you're alive at all. 

\JIe takes a newspaper from his pocket and 
starts to prop it against the toast rack'} 

How often must I tell you that a gentle- 
man does not read his newspaper at the 
breakfast table when his wife is present. 
Really in all these years one would imagine 
that you might have overcome your mining 
camp manners and don't forget your mud 
bath at twelve, and your massage at one. 

1:293 



What you would do without me I can't 

imagine — 

[_She goes into the hotel — he stares front a 
moment with eyes unseeing — then wakes 
as though from an ugly dream^ beckons 
the waiter to him — the waiter hurries — 
all attention — he whispers to the waiter y 
who raises his hands with a gesture of 
frightened amazement] 

THE WAITER 

But Monsieur — it is forbidden — Madame 
would — 

{The Man interrupts with an authoritative 
gesture, takes bank note from pocket and 
gestures the waiter to hurry — again stares 
front a moment — then sighs — takes news- 
paper from pocket and places it against 
toast rack, takes out cigar, lights it — 
draws gratefully at the weed and slowly 
ejects the smoke. The waiter returns with 
pot of coffee and cup — pours coffee, adds 
a little milk from glass — looking anxiously 
meanwhile toward the hotel] 

\JVhen HE has finished he steps toward the 
entrance like a conspirator] 

THE WAITER 

I will observe, it is better — 

[The man sips the coffee — his eyes on the 



paper, then smokes again, slowly the hand 
holding the cigar falls to his knee — he 
looks front again, a far-away wistful ex- 
pression on his face — he sighs deeply 
and says~\ 
Oh! If she only hadn't taken the wrong 
trail that night — 

[as the curtain falls] 

There is no such a thing as credit or blame. 
June, ig20 



n3i3 



PLAYING GOLF 

Golf is like a love affair. There's no fun 
in it unless you take it seriously, and if you 
do, it breaks your heart. A really great 
comedian, Dan Daly (no relation, sorry to 
say), characterized it years ago in that perfect 
musical comedy "The Belle of New York." 
Said Dan, with that inimitable sepulchral 
drawl. "You place a ball upon the ground, 
then you hit it ; if you find the ball the same 
day you hit it, you win the game." 

At cure resorts, doctors, with the fluent 
idiocy that not only fascinates but com- 
mands admiration, frequently prescribed the 
game for tired or over-wrought nerves. Oh, 
Allah! Mrs. Allah, and even Henry and 
Michaela Allah, I cry you mercy! The victim 
obediently, with a child-like stare of inno- 
cence, goes to his doom, and later in a dark- 
ened room, with the usual white-robed, soft- 
spoken nurse in attendance, babbles of brooks 
and forests, "Three up and I haven't won a 
hole. How the h-11 was I to know that ditch 
was there.? That's a nice place for a bunker. 

1:323 



Yesterday the tee was over there; the course 
was hard enough then. Why don't they tell 
a feller when they are going to move it? 
They told me the ninth was easy, just a 
mashie shot to the green, a nice short hole; 
very nice, a lake on one side and a jungle on 
the other. Annie Oakley couldn't do it with 
a rifle." Then the nurse lifts his head gently, 
bidding him forget it (forget it? if he only 
could). He gulps a foul tasting mixture of 
bromide and falls back on the pillow with 
twitching nerves and a heart aching with 
profanity. 

They say to play golf well one must keep 
in practice. I have always assured my 
friends most earnestly that there lies the 
reason for my poor game. How can one play 
well flirting with clubs only once, or at most, 
twice a year? I have often left the long grass 
and hurriedly caught up with a companion on 
the fairway to explain this. Why is it that 
one's friends become so narrow minded the 
moment they touch a golf club ? Sticking in 
a ridiculous way to a sort of mid- Victorian 
conservative attitude, mentally, towards the 
game. After all, primarily the object of the 
game is exercise. How can one get much 
exercise walking the straight line down a 
fairway? And then it shows such a boar-like 
C33 3 



ignorance of the beauties of nature. There, 
for instance, just to left is a forest, so peaceful 
that your very soul pauses to listen, and your 
spirit sighs and ceases longing. Drive in 
there, say I, and promptly do so. What a 
splendid gift the sense of exploration ! Then 
after breaking a niblick in getting out, and 
incidentally landing in the tall grass on the 
opposite side of the course, there is splendid 
solace in the thought that at least your 
game has the virtue of Catholicity — nothing 
narrow minded about it. I have explained 
all this laboriously often only to find that 
my companion wasn't listening. Instead he 
removes a pipe from a particularly ugly face, 
points with an arm at a peculiarly awkward 
angle at a tiny white spot on the green close 
to the flag, and says, with eyes seeking 
applause, "How's that for a second.?" Not 
waiting for an answer he stalks away, mutter- 
ing something about par being four and that 
he's got a possible three. "But then," I 
mused, staring after his ungainly form, "if 
after all you choose as a companion a man in 
commercial life it serves you right. What 
can you expect? He has the soul of a frog 
(now preparing to play five) the imagination 
of a kippered herring (look at the ball, you 
ninny — keep your head down) and the sen- 

1:34a 



sitiveness of a Hun. FORE! No luck, I 
missed him. I am up anyhow. No, — Fm 
over; in the ditch again. Well I am damned! 
Yesterday one of the five beautiful women 
of the world arrived here. No — I shan't 
name the other four, nor shall I tell you whom 
she is, except to mention casually that 
Vanity Fair published her picture last month, 
and that she spent a small fortune and two 
years of her time in Belgium in relief work. 
Her declared intention in coming here was 
to reduce her weight twenty pounds. Char- 
ity had eaten into her brain until finally it 
included the entire male race. "I will make 
myself hideous," said she. "Then let us 
hope men will forget me and go on with the 
serious business of the world." I asked her 
to play golf. She consented charmingly, 
"Just what I need," she crooned, "to get 
this fat off" (Shades of Aphrodite and moans 
of Chrysis, that's what she called it). "I 
must warn you, however, that I haven't 
played for years and Fll probably spoil your 
game (Ha ha) though I once won a medal at 
Deauville." We started out. I was aston- 
ished to find that I had met the second human 
being I have ever been able to beat at the 
bonny game. "This is murder," I muttered, 
as I brought her home 5 down. Over the 

C3Sa 



iced tea, which a too attentive sun had 
raised to the height of a luxurious emotion, 
her bewildering hazel eyes assumed a thought- 
ful tint. '*I think that tomorrow I'll go 
around with the pro for an hour first." I 
gulped my disappointment. "Then play 
with you after, if I may" — the "if I may" de- 
livered with a smile that would have caused 
**The Son of the Morning" to groan with 
envy for the banal reason of his fall. 

The next day a happy man and a strangely 
confident woman paused for a moment on 
the first tee to drink in the beauty of the 
morning. Birds sang, and, strange to say, 
not too noisily. Peace, utter peace, hung in 
the air. We stood on a bluff, a murmuring 
brook between us and the first hole. How 
truly charming it looked — then — the Green- 
brier Mountain before us stretched its lazy 
indolent beauty, indulgently, as far as the 
eye could reach. Old Kate's Mountain be- 
hind us reared its green head protectingly. 
"Nobody looks at me," sighed Miss Green- 
brier coquettishly to a sunbeam — "and yet 
I am beautiful. I wonder why.?" The sun- 
beam, too shy to answer, carried the com- 
plaint to old Kate's. 

"Tell my daughter," said she, shaking her 
hoary head slowly, " she should have been born 

1:36a 



abroad — then her countrymen would have 
admired her vastly." But the sunbeam could 
not understand this, and after thinking it 
over for a moment, disappeared in great 
chagrin. 

"The valley of the green wall," the beautiful 
one spoke again — "How dear it was of 
nature to keep the horrid world outside. I 
only gazed at her pityingly — my thoughts 
on the game — so fair a thing to be despoiled 
—"it's brutal," I thought, but "it's the game," 
the next thought shot in grimly. "Won't 
you take the honor?" I said, with what I 
intended for a charming smile, although a 
startled look on the caddie's face made me a 
trifle uneasy as to its efficacy. 

"What will you give me.^" she asked. 
"My life," I answered, huskily, "I mean a 
stroke a hole." 

She tried a practise swing. "Very good," 
I murmured indulgently. "Don't forget to 
keep your head down." Then she hit it a 
gentle, slow, rhythmic stroke and the ball 
sailed its dutiful course over the brook — on 
to the fairway — a good 175 yards at least. 
She looked up radiant. "Isn't that splendid," 
she gasped, delightedly. I acquiesced with 
an insane leer. 

"But of course you'll beat it," she purred 

1:373 



— "you drive so splendidly." After that, of 
course, I approached the ball as negligently 
as one may expect a King to do anything. 
With careless, even debonair ease, I drove 
the ball — straight into the brook. 

"What a pity," said she, "try another." 
I gazed at her and, presto! My mind flew 
back 20 years. I was fishing — the scene 
Lake St. Clair — a friend with me — and 
his young son aged 7 — 4 hours in the broil- 
ing sun — nary a bite — and the lad pulling 
them in until his arms ached — he pauses 
from his joyful labor long enough to note my 
expression. "Never mind," said he, touching 
me affectionately on the arm. "I'll give you 
all my small ones." I was startled to find the 
same murder in my heart for my fair com- 
panion that I felt for the boy twenty long 
years ago. 

I drove another ball. This time I got over 
in the long grass. "That's better," mur- 
mured Diana, "much better. Don't forget 
you are giving me a stroke a hole. We de- 
scended the hillside — somehow the beauty of 
the day had faded. In two strokes more I 
managed to get on to the fairway — but my 
heart — Oh, my God! my heart, how heavy 
it was — " "Let me see," she puzzled, "what 
club shall I use now.?" "Your midiron, of 



course," I answered "the hole is just over that 
bunker." "No," said she slowly, "I think" 
(looking at her bag as a child looks at a platter 
of French pastry) "I'll take this one," fish- 
ing out a brassie. "You'll go over it with 
that," I warned, but she only smiled at me 
wisely. "I don't use this club very well," 
she cooed, "somehow I don't seem to get 
the hang of it. Perhaps I'd better take a 
practise swing." I looked back nervously 
to the first tee and saw the worst exhibition 
of bad acting ever witnessed by mortal man 
— a foursome pretence at concealing im- 
patience. 

"Now, how was it he told me to stand," 
she continued, "I never can remember" — 
"Oh dear, I suppose I'll miss it," and then 
she hit it, and the marvel was, the world went 
on just the same — the birds sang — the sun 
shone — the breeze gently swept by us — 
and the ball lay on the green. Now she be- 
trayed a kinship to a bank cashier. "Let me 
see," she cried, her eyes glistening, "that's 
two, isn't it.? And you played two from the 
tee — we should count it three — but we'll 
call it two then two out of the long grass — 
that's four. Now you're playing five; yes, 
that's right — 5," she breathed victoriously. 

Now the devil had me — I don't know 

1:393 



that he wanted me — but whether or no, he 
had me, and was probably sorry for the job. 
I played savagely, sullenly, desperately. 

But why continue a tale of defeat — morti- 
fication, anger — black, black misery — all 
the pain and sorrow of the world were mine — 

The Queen brought me home 6 down. As 
we passed the Old White she paused to ad- 
mire its simple Colonial lines. "They say,'' 
said she reflectively — "that General Wash- 
ington used to dance on the very floor that's 
in the ball room now." " Did he .?" I answered 
absently, ^'I wonder what he went round in.?" 

Golf is like a love affair. There is no 

fun it] it unless you take it seriously 

and if you do, it breaks your heart. 

White Sulphur Springs 
igi6 



C403 



FATHER AND SON 

A CONTEMPORANEOUS OPINION 

In space indefinable there sat the figure of 
a man. His brow was not broader than a 
continent — nor his eye deeper than the sea, 
therefore, these things one did not notice — 
but the great fines of suffering about the 
beautiful mouth made all those who saw, 
long to succor and serve him eternally. It 
was strange that whilst he sat in the shadow 

— a wonderful light seemed to emanate from 
him. It blinded and kept all prostrate for 
centuries until they understood — then it 
warmed them in a glow indescribable. 

An old man leaning on a great staff stood 
at his left as though awaiting a final order. 
His great white beard trailed at his feet — 
trailed on and on and on until one wondered 
where it ended. It was long enough and 
beautiful enough to clothe all the children 
in the world — the staff trembled in his hand 

— surely if he did not rest, he must fall 
and die ? But he knew that the figure before 



him needed rest more than anything that 
was ever known, so he only leaned forward, 
the better to listen, for the other was about 
to speak. Slowly the great mouth opened 
and the sound of many deep bells was heard. 

"All the planets are at peace — Saturn, 
Jupiter, Venus — all — even Mars, all but 
one,'* said he, "and that I gave to my young- 
est son — my best beloved to tend. He will 
not fail us, therefore, at last we may rest — 
we may sleep eternally — my work will be 
done." 

He raised his head, and it seemed that a 
mountain moved. Then the face softened 
unutterably. He spoke again: "I hear him 
— • He comes. Thou shalt hear his report — 
Thine old ears drink in his success — Rest ! 
— Think on it — Hurry — greet and admit 
him." 

The old man trembled so that he must 
needs bid the wind cease ere he moved — 
then he started slowly away. 

The seated figure gazed before him. The 
lines of pain left the face as the great arms 
were folded o'er his chest. Then out of the 
shadow there stepped the figure of a man — 
the face was so tenderly beautiful that look- 
ing upon it, strangely enough, the first great 
longing was to see it smile — yet the mouth 

1:423 



plainly showed that it had never done that. 
This man had never known laughter. He 
wore a strange sort of headdress from which 
drops of blood coursed down his brow, also 
there was blood upon his hands, yea, even 
upon his feet. 

His eyes, like two great pools of truth held 
a wistful longing — a great, great sadness 
that seemed to mirror all the tragedy of the 
world — His shoulders drooped — slowly he 
hung his head. Then he spoke. His voice 
sounded like the wind whispering the unrest 
of men in a low moan : 

"Father, I have come." 

The old man came from the shadow lean- 
ing on his staff and gazed upon the two 
wonderingly. The Father turned and looked 
upon the boy. 

*'What strange wreath is this thou dost 
affect.?" 

"Thorns," answered the Son. 

Then the question came like a thunder 
clap — 

"Wherefore.?" 

"A gift from my children — " 

"When?" 

"Some two thousand years ago." 

"But since—" 

"Alas! There has been no reason to re- 

1:433 



move them. I may not do so until they learn 
to love." 

The Father gazed at his son for a long time 
— the old man tore his beard in anguish. 
Finally the Father spoke: 

"Then thou hast failed.?" 

His voice was harsh with defeat and sur- 
prise. The Son lowered his head, and when 
he answered, his voice moaned all the misery 
of the universe as he whispered : 

"I have failed." 

The Father rose, a great fierce light shone 
from his eyes. He reached out his arm — the 
boy sank upon his knees. The old man made 
a gesture of appeal. Looking long upon the 
Son's pitiable figure, finally the great face 
softened. He leaned forward and gently 
raised the kneeling form and held it tenderly 
in his arms for a moment, and then sat him 
by his side. He had but just then observed 
the ragged holes in each hand, and upon each 
foot. 

After a long pause during which the Son 
cried softly, the Father spoke: 

"Thou shalt speak of this — " 

The Son raised his head, the eyes swimming 
in a sea of tears. The Father looked at him 
closely and understood that those eyes had 
wept until it seemed that they could weep no 

lu2 



more. Then a strange feeling of pride came 
over him, for he reahzed that only his Son 
could find more tears for an unworthy world. 

The Son clasped his hand and began: 

"It's simply told — I knew when thou 
did'st send me of thy great faith and 1 was 
happy. I went confident, believing in them, 
but alas, I found only mediocrity, greed, 
bestiality — even so, I thought the cure 
simple. I will die for these men. It is the 
only way. That will waken them, and so 
1 arranged it, after gathering a few wise men 
about me. I left my message, and then it 
was done. They stoned me and sent me to 
thee thus — " holding up his hands — "and 
the man who sentenced me, the next day for- 
got my name, but after all I must not chide 
him for that, for, — " here the lips almost 
smiled — "I have forgotten his." 

"But after.?" — The Father asked impa- 
tiently. 

"I said that I'd return," the Son answered. 
"But I felt it useless, useless. Two thousand 
years I waited for a sign — the slightest ges- 
ture whereby I could hope, but it did not 
come. Finally into the mind of a madman 
came a desire to dominate. Another had 
played that game before him and failed but 
he thought his predecessor an amateur at 

t4S2 



arms — and so he sounded the drum — in 
your name." 

"In my name" — the great face blazed 
its amazement. 

"Always when they fight it is in your name " 
— the Son answered. "It is a game they 
play, 'In God's name/ one cries, and points 
out the enemy as "Sons of Lucifer." — It is 
necessary. They must find a reason, for they 
dare not tell the people the real one. None 
would fight, — not openly, if their leaders 
proclaimed 'It is all for money' — and so 
they call loudly upon 'Honor, Virtue, Patriot- 
ism and Ton,' Loudly the drums sounded. 
Now madness was loose. I thought to raise 
my hand and then I paused — a thought 
had come to me. My death had created 
crucifixes, plaster casts and paintings and 
they thought their debt was paid to you. 
What if I gave rein to this madness for a 
while .? Would that waken them ? I thought 
to try — and closed my eyes." 

Now the Son paused a long time. The lines 
of pain had deepened about the Father's 
mouth. The old man standing near swayed 
upon his staff and moaned. Blood trickled 
into the Son's eyes and mingled with his salt 
tears unheeded. He continued, his voice now 
like a wailing wind — " Ten million — ten 

1:463 



million — ten million souls tricked, as a 
tribute to Greed." 

"Whereas I had thought to shock them — 
again I had failed — I failed!" Now the 
tears rained down. "Failed! For my chil- 
dren were not cold in their graves — the ink 
not dry upon their brother's peace papers — 
when they were forgotten, and the world went 
quickly about building, again to destroy. For 
all built upon greed, messengers of commerce, 
each rushing to the peace table to have the 
button sewn on his coat — their own negli- 
gence of you had lost. A pageant of victory 
to the dead — Parades to lull and soothe the 
public conscience — honors and riches heaped 
upon the vultures, whilst the melodramatic, 
pretentious lie leapt higher and higher looking 
down upon the fools, screaming a hideous 
laughter in its triumph — the futility of peace 
without kneeling to Thee and asking Thy 
direction never occurred to them." Here he 
paused — then resumed sadly, "There were 
Three who were elected leaders. One a tiger, 
at bargaining in the guise of Justice. His 
people, loving money most, cried privilege 
in the name of Art — whilst denying that 
any other nation possessed it. 

"Another, an arch politician, would win by 
any means, for his people cried peace, whilst 

1:47a 



possessing three-quarters of the globe. The 
third, from the land of *Don'ts and Isms/ 
a mere pawn in their hands, dreaming of a 
sainthood, imagined that he could sit by 
Thy side on the score of ambition. 

*'A11, each and every one, were deaf to my 
whisper that they should kneel each day and 
commune with Thee to seek thy counsel. 
Whither art they going.? I know not. I 
pray Thee, Father, give me peace of them — " 
and the Son fell at his Father's feet. 

The Father made one hopeless movement 
and then his face grew stern. Slowly he 
turned and faced his Son. 

"Thou shalt return," he said. '"Thou 
knowest that I may not rest until they are 
at peace. This task I gave to Thee, my 
youngest, my best beloved, thinking I had 
given thee genius — knowing that they were 
the most difficult, I trusted Thee; When I 
sent thee, in thy youthful confidence, thou 
didst not think it necessary to consult Me. 
Thou thoughtest them worth dying for — I 
could have told Thee that they were not. 
Thou shalt go back !" and now his voice rose, 
as though to wake the mountains. ""Only 
this time it shall be as I say." 

The Son raised a piteous face pleading, 
terror shining from his eyes as he shrank 

us 3 



back, the blood upon his brow, hands and 
feet congeaHng. 

"Nay, thou shalt return," the Father 
decreed — "Shall I never rest?" 

The Son gazed upon his Father in great 
awe, the tears raining down, and down, and 
down. The old man swayed upon his staff 
and fell, tearing his beard and moaning. 

December, ig20. 



C493 



JAMES STEPHENS 

AN APPRECIATION 

It was dusk. At the end of the dusty road 
was a village which has a quaint, restful look, 
and so we entered. 

Near to the market place we saw a dozen 
sweating men pulling down a fountain. They 
had not the look of vandals; yet the thing 
seemed wanton and I paused to ask the 
reason. 

One of the men wiped his brow with a 
brawny hand, and said: 

*^ Women do not need drink; and men will 
find it, anyhow." 

To this I said: "The fountain is beautiful 
— why destroy it.?" 

''It's this way," the man replied. "This 
village is charitable, above all other things; 
and we need this space that we may cure 
certain men who are suffering of a grave 
unrest. In place of the fountain, we mean 
to set up a great ball of yarn, then these 
afflicted ones may come and knit all through 

cson 



the day; also they may gossip and confide 
their thoughts to each other. In this way 
other men will be spared." 

" But what men are these whom you would 
thus occupy.?'' I inquired. 

"They are the young neurasthenic Christs," 
said he, and counted them upon his strong 
fingers. "By name they are: Wells, Gals- 
worthy and Conrad — all Englishmen. Then 
there is a Frenchman, Brieux; and of Russians, 
God help us, there are many — Tolstoi, 
Gorky, Dostoyevsky, Porebyshewski and so 
on, to the end of time." 

"But," cried I, appalled, "these are men of 
letters!" 

He only wagged a stubborn head. 

"Some of them, indeed, seem to have the 
great gift; but all of them have misunder- 
stood its purpose." 

"Why, then," said I, "Since you are sitting 
so confidently in judgment, in the hands of 
what modern scrivener is the gold of thought, 
who also knows its value.?" 

He looked at me a moment; then I saw 
the big shoulders give a hopeless twitch. He 
said, quite simply — 

"Why James Stephens." 

To understand a snub is a gift in itself; 
and so I resumed my journey. At the out- 



skirts of the village my terrier looked back 
at me, and I saw that he was angry. 

"To show your ignorance so!" said he. 
"It is too bad." 

I took the trouble to catch up with him, 
for, after all, he is a good dog. 

"In what have I shown ignorance?" I 
inquired. 

He stared at me, deep reproach in his 
brown eyes. 

"And do you really not know who James 
Stephens is.?" 

"I do not." 

He regarded me frankly. 

"Oh, of course!" said he, finally. "To 
be sure you would not." 

"Well," said I impatiently, "I'm waiting. 
At least, Fm willing to learn." 

He sat down in the dust of the road and 
looked up at me with wise eyes; and his 
voice was curiously patient, though ironic, 
as he said: 

Stephens is a man who is working in Dublin 
for three pounds a week. He would like to 
get more; but as he has no hope of it, so, 
also, he will not be disappointed if it does 
not come to pass. He is one of the few who 
understand the gift of words; and so he is 
not trying to misapply it. 

1:523 



I shall sing with my pen," he said. For 
some angel had whispered to him that it's 
a great thing to bring joy to the heart of man. 
For, you see, the angels know that the world 
is gray enough, and their promptings caused 
James Stephens to put into his finest book 
"The Crock of Gold" all the laughter in the 
world, all the poetry and all the wisdom. 
And if you can tell me what more should go 
into a book, I would like to hear it. You 
must read "The Crock of Gold" said he, 
"and then you must ask the man in the book 
shop for the other three. Perhaps it's best 
that I do not tell you their names. But this 
I will tell you. Get them one at a time, and 
read each of them at least twice — for Stevens 
is Irish, you see, and I doubt" — here he 
cocked his head at me valuingly — "well, 
perhaps you'll not understand him even then. 
No one but an Irishman could write these 
books. And no one but an Irishman could 
really understand them — unless, mark you, 
it be a person of rare imagination. And in 
that quality I have always taken the liberty 
to doubt you." 

"Further understand," proceeded he, "that 
no German, however great, could have written 
'The Crock of Gold'; no dark born Russian 
could even attempt it. Wilde, Stephens' own 

ns3 3 



countryman, would have given his soul to 
have written it; and as for Shaw, he stands 
in the valley, grimacing with his cap and 
bells, peering enviously up at that far peak 
where James Stephens stands, smiling, and 
listening to the still voices of beings who are 
kind to the world. 

"And remember what the workman said 
of the modern scriveners — some of them 
possess the gift, but have misunderstood its 
purpose. For it is not, mark you, the prov- 
ince of a writer to save men's souls, any 
more than it is an architect's. The men who 
so try to ruin their gift are the men who have 
never recovered from the surprise of discover- 
ing it. Their brains shook under the shock; 
they drew in long breaths and at once began 
to take themselves seriously — they imme- 
diately bethought themselves of the saving 
of men — they became young, neurasthenic 
Christs. The presumption of trying to save 
anyone! My point of view is far enough 
removed from man's to see the folly of that. 
Man will never be saved; he will always 
continue a fool; for only as a fool does he 
fill the uses of nature. Wisdom for man is 
not normal; and the non-normal leads to 
madness." 

Here he paused; and as I looked ahead 



there was no horizon; the road was quite 
dark. And when I started bHndly forward, 
the terrier spoke again. 

Hadn't we better turn back.?" he suggested. 
Without question I turned, and before us lay 
the Hghts of the village — lights that seemed 
to bid one not to think, but to rest. 

"You are going too far," said he, "that is 
your home; that is the place you have been 
so long looking for. 

He gazed at me appealingly; and then, as 
I started to retrace my steps, he capered 
about, and leaped up at me in vast content. 



An epigram is never written. Someone 

says it — somebody overhears it and 

the third person remembers it. 



1:553 



DEMOCRACY'S KING 

CHARACTERS 

WILLIAM POINCARE 

GEORGE KERENSKY * 

ALBERT THE AMERICAN 
EMMANUEL 

Two guards and a number of children 

[Curtain rises on last strains of ''Star 
Spangled Banner," When up, " Taps" is 
heard in distance, then guard enters from right} 

The scene is a charming orchard in autumn 
just at sunset. The soft amber light, filtering 
through the trees, gives an impression of un- 
utterable peace until the eye is caught by a 
noose that sways gently from the limb of a 
dignified apple tree, which stands quite alone 
in the foreground — alone — as tho conscious 
of the importance of its mission. Someone has 
placed a long table just to the right of the apple 
tree with two stools at either side and one at 
the head facing the tree, another at the foot. 
There is a path running up to the right, tho 

* Written at the time Kerensky was in power. 

i:s63 



one can barely distinguish it now, as it is 
covered with leaves. Along this path heavy, 
crunching footsteps are heard, the dead leaves 
whistling in sharp protest, 

\_An armed guard enters and stands aside; 
he is followed by six hulking figures in various 
German uniforms. After them another guard, 
armed also, who stands beside his mate; the 
six figures skulk in the background. Then 
voices are heard as five gentlemen enter with 
grave faces, discussing very seriously something 
which has evidently upset them very much. 
They approach the table and stand about it a 
moment continuing their discussion before sit- 
ting, which they do quite informally^ 

POINCARE 

It is unheard of. 

EMMANUEL 

Certainly, it has never been done [jits'] 

KERENSKY 

Even I would not have asked for so much 

— and you — \jits~\ 
[Turning to Albert] 

ALBERT 

I have no emotion left. As I said before 

— I do not care. It is over now — let him 
go [sits] 

1:573 



POiNCARE \jxcitedly'} 

But the American will not — nor will he 
consider anything but this. 

\^Looks up at the noose, shudders, then con-- 
tinues"] 

And he decides it all with a smiling face — 
but when you try to move him — Mon Dieu! 

[George sits during this speech^ 

[Shrugs his shoulders^ 

Then he is granite. You, Your Majesty, 
you said nothing at the conference. 

[Turning to George~\ 

GEORGE 

I am at a loss — I am dumbfounded. It is 
not regular. 

EMMANUEL 

What to do } He will consider nothing less. 

KERENSKY 

After all, gentlemen, we must remember 
the agreement. It was thoroughly understood 
the American was not to be called in unless 
his voice decided the issue. 

POINCARE [gravely"] 
That is true. 

[Steps are heard on the path'] 
Hush! They are coming. 



\_Each man rises, William enters^ his face 
white and drawn^ all the actor out of him 
now. The sneaking figures in the shadow 
catch his eye and a bitter smile touches the 
corner of his mouth. The young American 
by his side is easy, graceful, unconcerned, 
as tho' out for an afternoon stroll, William 
sees the noose, pauses, the American gently 
touches him on the arm. He pulls himself 
together, and knowing what is expected of 
him walks firmly until he stands beneath 
the noose. The American joins the other 
gentlemen, offering them a cigarette; they 
look at him amazed as they politely decline. 
He gestures to them to be seated, as he takes 
the stool at the head of the table facing 
William, Albert looks at the American a 
moment, then seats himself at the foot, his 
head sinking wearily on his arms; the 
others seat themselves slowly, as tho' in a 
daze'] 

THE AMERICAN 

Well, gentlemen, it is the end. Let us get 
on with if; I regret to say that I must hasten 
home. There is important work waiting to 
be done. 

[They all stare at him again, except Albert, 
who remains motionless] 

lS9l 



William, have you anything to say? Any 
message to leave? 

WILLIAM 

There is nothing — it is finished. 

THE AMERICAN [contemplatively} 
You're a curious man, you know. You've 
failed at everything. You would be a musi- 
cian, only to have your own people laugh in 
their sleeve. A patron of art — had you no 
one to tell you that art cannot be patronized ? 
One may only serve it on one's knees. 
Whether to create or possess, it must be 
loved devotedly and tended abjectly. Had 
you a genius in your midst you were ever 
blind, but if there was a merchant prince's 
yacht in the harbor your eye was ever far- 
seeing and your hand ever ready to pin a 
medal on a brewer's breast. 

WILLIAM [contemptuously^ 
What do you know of art in America? A 
Democracy. 

THE AMERICAN 

True, alas! There is no place for art in 
the building of a nation, but that only makes 
your crime the greater. When a prince mis- 
took power for privilege democracy was born 

n6o3 



and art was thrust aside, as an aged relative 
— always in the way. 

KERENSKY [_grimly2 

Art may wait a little longer. One can think 
better on it with a belly full of food. 

THE AMERICAN \^smiling] 

I daresay — I only mentioned it as one 
of his many failures. But it was his last, his 
most brilliant failure — that fascinates me, 
the one that has brought us all together. 
Tell me — [Turning to Poincarf} — had he 
taken Paris when he thought to dine there, 
would you have been beaten.? 

POINCARE [jimply~] 
The French are never beaten. 

THE AMERICAN [slowly] 

No — but had he by any chance won, of 
course the rest was simple, with forty years' 
preparation, — [Then turn ing to William] — 
the French beaten, the EngHsh, then unpre- 
pared, would hardly have been a mouthful. 
Then back to the Eastern front, and the 
Russians with all their generals bribed would 
have been easy for you, William, whilst 
Nicholas waited to see what you would leave 

n6i3 



for him. Then after a sHght rest and a bless- 
ing upon God, your next move was South 
America, then North America, and after that 
the rest was simple. A damned interesting 
game — interesting indeed. I wonder if one 
man prevented its going through, and if he 
did it would be curious to know just how he 
feels about it. 

[Turning to Poincare'} 

You must ask Papa Jofifre some day. 

[Poincare gravely nods his head] 
But didn't it occur to you, William, that the 
God whom you were gracious enough to adopt 
as your_nephew was by your side in very 
truth, nearer even than you imagined, just 
by your shoulder? Only, strange to say. He 
did not seem to agree with you as to the 
wisdom of your course. Perhaps that was 
why He caused every blow you struck to 
prove a boomerang (slight movement). For it 
has been a boomerang, William — every single 
blow. Have you thought of that ? 

[The others look up at this, even Albert 
slightly raises his head. This thought had 
not occurred to them before] 

WILLIAM 

[Looks a moment at the American, then 
slowly up at the noose above his head, then 

n62a 



back to the American again. He begins 
very deliberately'} 
It is not the moment for anything except 
the truth. What you have said is perfectly 
correct, young man. I had a dream — 
l^Nozv his gaze shifts to the setting sun, and 
he continues as tho oblivious of them for 
a moment — in a spirit of exaltation} 
Such a wonderful dream. Jch Gottf I 
was on the mountain top forever looking 
down upon you all. Everything that Caesar 
and Napoleon failed to do I meant to accom- 
plish. My beautiful language was to be the 
only tongue in the world, everywhere my flag! 
so that in the centuries to come my people 
would always kneel in gratitude to the mem- 
ory of William the Greatest. 

[^Then mournfully his gaze returns to the 

American} 
And it has come to this — are you satisfied ^. 
{The American rises to answer; William 
gestures him to sit again} 
One moment — I have not finished. You 
truly said each blow has been a boomerang, 
but you neglected to properly sum up the 
result. 

{Then proudly} 
I have re-created you all. What you are and 
what you may be in the future is the result 

1:63 a 



of my work. Mark that well, I would have 
been the world's Emperor, the epitome of 
imperialism — that was my ambition. It is 
fate that I must go down into history as 
Democracy's King. Truly, the Ironic God 
was at my shoulder. But, at least, you will 
admit that the little game I played resulted 
in producing one King who did not mistake 
power for privilege, Albert — try to found a 
democracy in Belgium if you dare. 

[JFhimsically} 

Tho' you might in Italy some day — per- 
haps, th? Emmanuel? And yet my little 
game was of some slight service to you also ; 
at least I turned a bad poet into a good soldier. 

EMMANUEL 

I do not care for you, or the poet either. 
If they want democracy they can have it; 
I only want my garden. 

WILLIAM 

\jThen mournfully again"] 

As ye reap — oh, my God ! Now I under- 
stand — if we had all been as Albert, your 
democracy — [to American] 

[Contemptuously] 
had never been born. 

1:643 



{Then turning to George^ his eye lighting nozv2 
George ! You thought I hated England ; you 
were wrong. 

GEORGE 

1 thought nothing. {Pause^ I wish my 
grandmother had been here to deal with you 

— all this might have been avoided. Even 
my father understood you. I never wanted 
the responsibility — 

{With sudden heat] 

Why did you not let us alone ? 

WILLIAM 

Why did I not let you alone.? Because I 
envied you your commercial supremacy. 
Yours is the greatest market place in the 
world; you are the greatest salesmen. It 
has ever been so, and now, oh God! it will 
ever be so. And you conquer in commerce 
whilst you play — your golf — your cricket 

— your shooting. "It is a fine day" — you 
say; "let us go out and kill something." And 
yet you zvin, playing at the thing I am most 
serious about — business. — It is baffling. 
Why did I not let you alone indeed.'^ That 
was my greatest folly. You were dying slowly 
-^ surely dying ; senility was on you, the fog 
was in your brain. Commercially you were 
rotting; the world was passing you by; the 

n6sa 



sleep of centuries was coming o'er your eyes, 
and I, like a fool, awakened you. To-day you 
are younger and stronger than you have ever 
been. Tell me, to whom do you owe your 
youth ? 

\_American rises, goes upstage, George looks 
away'] 

No, I did not hate the English, George, 
tho' I did hate — shall I tell you whom? The 
French ! 

[[poiNCARE looks at him startled'] 

Yes, your people — I hated from the bottom 
of my soul because they knew how to laugh 

{_All move looking from one to other] 
whilst I could only make a guttural sound — 
a hideous noise, most repulsive. Ah! how 
the French can laugh, and what is supremacy 
without laughter? 

POINCARE 

You have found we can be serious also, eh? 

WILLIAM 

I care nothing for that. You have won, 
and it is over. It was the child in you that 
beat me, Poincare, the happy, laughing child 
that is in the heart of every Frenchman. Be 
content that you are the greatest nation on 
earth — now — tho' you too were dying. Tell 
me, who has made you strong again? 

1:663 



\_Poincare stares^ unable to answer^ 

As for you, my man, — 

\_Looking at Kerensky~\ 
had Nicholas not been a fool you would still 
be in Siberia. Since you would rule accept 
a word from an old hand at the game: Be- 
ware of fanaticism; it's as dangerous as 
imperialism. And if you are honest tell your 
people that Russia, the home of bribery and 
corruption, was cleansed and made ready for 
freedom by the blow of William, the failure. 
Now, gentlemen, you may complete this cere- 
mony, and yet my work is not complete 
altho' it is near the end. Young man from 
across the sea — 

\J^ooking at the American] 
do you think it wise to pull this rope before I 
have completely taken the paunch off America .? 

THE AMERICAN 

\_Looking at him quickly y then his face becom- 
ing very grave] 

It is true, William, that you've done a good 
day's work, and also that the paunch must 
come off. But that we must leave in the 
hands of God. You see, 1 trust Him, whereas 
you directed Him. Observe, William, it is 
an apple tree you stand under. Do you not 
know the wisdom of the fable ^. God did not 

1:673 



forbid the apple because He was especially 
fond of it but simply to teach Adam inhibition. 

\JThen rising] 

Are you ready, William ? 

WILLIAM 

Yes. 

[The American signals one of the guards y 
who goes off into the shadow. The Ameri- 
can approaches William^ taking a bit of 
string out of his pocket, speaking as he 
approaches and during the following tying 
William's hands behind his back] 

THE AMERICAN 

You always wanted to be first, William; 
now your wish is gratified unless, by any 
chance, one of the six to follow would prefer 
to play the leading part.? [laugh] 

[The six figures in the shadow fall upon 
their knees, wailing and groaning. Then 
the happy laughter of many, many children 
is heard.] 

WILLIAM 

[Starting apprehensively] 
What is that? 

THE AMERICAN 

That? Nothing, only the laughter of 
children. 

1:683 



WILLIAM [nervously'} 

What do they here ? 

THE AMERICAN [reproachfully'] 

You ask that, WilHam? I am surprised. 
Why, after you they play the principal part. 
They are to pull the rope. 

[j411 men rise — exclamation] 

WILLIAM 

No ! No ! You wouldn't — you couldn't ! 
It's the revenge of a fiend from hell. My God, 
no ! Not at the hands of children. 

[The laughter is heard again] 

THE AMERICAN [In his ear] 
Are you shuddering because you fear it 
will soil them ? That is good of you, William, 
but do not fear; I have told them it is a little 
game they are playing — just a little game 
for them as you played yours for yourself. 
[The laughter comes again {one short peal)] 
Their laughter is simply an echo of the 
moans of their little brothers and sisters. 
[Children run on, laughing] 
[A groan breaks from William as a hundred 
laughing children enter, some picking up 
the rope, others surrounding William, put- 
ting their arms around him and shouting 
in their childish voices] 

C693 



"Come, Uncle William, let's play Lusi- 



tania." 



\JVilIiam shrinks from theiUy hoarsely crying^ 

WILLIAM 

No! No! 

\_The others take up the cry'\ 
"Yes, Uncle William, let's play Lusitania. 
You go up and we go down." 

{Albert's head is bowed upon his arms, also 
George; Emmanuel is praying; Kerensky 
turns down right, unable to stand the strain; 
Poincare staggers off, as the children, con- 
tinuing the cry, take the rope and retreat 
of into the dusk. The sun has set. The 
rope is a straight line like a tight rope 
ready for a performance; the American has 
the noose in his hands. As he settles it 
over the head of William the curtain de- 
scends to the sound of the low, hoarse sob- 
bing of the six figures in the shadow, and 
the laughing cries of the children'^ 

"Let's play Lusitania, Uncle William — you 
go up and we go down." 

{After children s voices die away in distance, 
sound ^^ Taps'' and on last strains ring 
curtain^ 

Immorality reaches its apex when one is 
inefficient and sits in a high place. 



WHY SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS COULD 
ONLY HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY 
AN ACTOR 

A DINNER arranged by a friend with an 
outrageous appetite for discussion brought us 
face to face one night with an ardent advo- 
cate of the Baconian theory. The terrific 
fascination which all mediocre reasoning com- 
pels, held us spellbound for the moment. 
However, the spirit of charity triumphed, 
and although knowing the futility of trying 
to create, on barren soil, we bravely cut into 
the ivory, and only admitted failure, when 
the poor blunted knife snapped indignantly, 
preferring death to such a hopeless expedi- 
tion. And only weariness, that insufferable 
weariness which only boredom can bring; 
and is invariably created by the reasoning of 
college professors, when discussing creative 
work, leads us back to this time-worn ques- 
tion. 

It sounds too feeble to quote the reasoning 
of our Baconian friend, but I fear it is neces- 
sary, for after all, it is practically the reason- 
ing of all Baconian theorists, — to wit, — 

1712 



that it was impossible for Shakespeare to 
have acquired the education necessary for 
the writing of these plays, that their great 
literary beauty was impossible of achieve- 
ment except at the hands of a scholar, etc., 
etc., — in short, the gentleman proved most 
carefully that two and two make four. 

In the first place, we feebly admit that we 
do not know what a scholar is. William 
Archer once disclaimed being one with a 
rather grateful note in his voice, but had he 
thought the peculiar product worthy of analy- 
sis, he might have found that it spells a 
brain crammed with bits of knowledge on 
various subjects, and no ability to master 
any one. Not for a moment, however, 
should one decry education; it is a splendid 
thing, but at best only polishes the diamond. 
In creative work it has achieved nothing. A 
study of the great psychologists will enhance 
the knowledge of a philosophic mind, but 
that study is useless unless the brain has a 
very natural aptitude for the subject. As to 
two and two making four — that is perfectly 
absurd. Two and two make five when 
Shakespeare or Goethe, or even a musician 
like Strauss cracks his whip. And all that to 
this eff^ect, — and I crave for this point the 
reader's grave consideration — it would have 

1:723 



been a much more remarkable thing for Lord 
Bacon to have possessed the knowledge of the 
technique of the stage which these plays betray 
than it would have been for Mr. Shakespeare 
to have possessed sufficient education to write 
them. 

Their Hterary quality is not their domi- 
nant trait, all the college professors in Chris- 
tendom to the contrary, although it is most 
difficult to prove this to the layman's mind. 
No genuine student of play construction re- 
quires any explanation of this statement. 
The simple fact suffices. Ibsen would under- 
stand it at once, and betray genuine surprise 
that anyone doubted it. No dilettante versi- 
fier in the theatre could ever know it, nor 
would he understand what one was driving 
at, and no amount of explanation would 
convince him. But for those who can " smell " 
the situation, for those who have any "nos- 
trils" for the theatre at all a few instances will 
be sufficient. 

Let us remember that Mercutio is killed 
not so much by Tybalt's skilful fencing as 
by Romeo's stupid interference. That is 
drama. In warring interests it is always the 
innocent bystander who suffers. Further, it 
is not the literary quality that commends 
Mercutio's speech to us. 



"No: 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a 
church door, but 'tis enough — 'twill serve: 1 am 
peppered, I warrant for this world. — A plague on both 
your houses! — What! a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to 
scratch a man to death! A braggart, a rogue, a villain, 
that fights by the book of arithmetic! — Why the 
devil came you between us? I was hurt under your 
arm." 

Not the literary quality but the philosophic 
reasoning of this "gets us." Any more than 
it was the poetic value in Burns' lines which 
made them beautiful, but again the philo- 
sophic reasoning, and that one does not get 
in school. 

"Now wad the power, the gift to gi'e us 
To see ourselves as ithers see us." 

The cunningly wrought interest, the tense- 
ness, the suspense of the trial scene in the 
"Merchant of Venice." There we have 
wonderfully wrought drama — wonderfully 
wrought indeed by the master-hand of the 
theatre. He leads the audience up to the 
knife at the breast before he gives them 
relief by telling that the Jew must get his 
pound of flesh but . . . 
Portia. 

"Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less nor more 
But just a pound of flesh: if thou takest more 
Or less than a just pound — be it but so much 
As makes it light or heavy in the substance, 

1:743 



Or the division of the twentieth part 

Of one poor scruple! nay, if the scale do turn 

But in the estimate of a hair, — 

Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate." 

Gratiano. 

"A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew! 
Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip." 

Is that literature.? Of course, but the 
literary quality must take second place to 
the dramatic. It is in "'the drama'' that the 
situation is dominant — the Jew tricked and 
the scales turned in Gratiano's exultant 
repetition of Shylock's phrase. Who else but 
an old trickster of the theatre would have 
expected us to believe that Portia's disguise 
could have deceived Bassanio! That trick 
was in keeping with Augustus Thomas' put- 
ting a stamp on an envelope in a situation in 
"Arizona," and then declaring the communi- 
cation under the protection of the United 
States Government, despite the fact that 
we all know the government is not responsible 
until the letter is in its charge. Or William 
Gillette's trick in perhaps the finest melo- 
drama written in twenty years, namely, 
"Secret Service" wherein the Southern spy 
tries to prevent the Northern spy sending 
his message over the wires by drawing the 
General's attention to the fact that the 



signature is pasted on the message. Thorn's 
answer is: ''They often come that way, Sir," 
and gets away with it. Ask Mr. Gillette or 
Mr. Thomas, and we will wager that they 
will confess that these tricks are only the 
result of a knowledge of the theatre learned 
by serving the institution patiently on their 
knees for years. The knocking on the gate, 
after the murder of Duncan which makes 
Macbeth quake with fear and results in 
Macduff's entrance, the man who is going to 
kill him in the end. Theatre! Theatre! 
Theatre! and such perfect theatre! 

Hamlet's scene with Marcellus and Horatio 
in which he makes them swear. 

Hamlet. 

"Never to speak of this that you have seen, 
Swear by my sword. 
Ghost. \_Beneath~\ 

Swear. 
Hamlet. 

Hie et ubique? then we'll shift our ground 

Come hither, gentlemen, 

And lay your hands again upon my sword: 

Never to speak of this that you have heard. 

Swear by my sword. 
Ghost. \^Beneath~\ 

Swear. 
Hamlet. 

Well said, old mole! canst work i' the earth so fast? 

A worthy pioneer! Once more remove, good friends." 

1:763 



His father murdered, the boy's desire to 
revenge his death. His agony of mind in 
trying to concentrate on that, and insure no 
interference or miscarriage of his plans, by 
swearing his friends to secrecy, and the 
terrific mental torment he feels on hearing 
the Ghost's unrest in the ground in his 
constant repetition "Swear," the effort to 
escape from the tragedy in that cry from 
the cold ground in "then we'll shift our 
ground" and again in "Once more remove, 
good friends," this is sheer theatre at its 
best, just as the Ghost's visitation in the 
closet scene to remind Hamlet of his oath 
when the boy is pleading with his mother 
"go not to mine uncle's bed" — "Assume 
a virtue if you have it not," is one of the most 
pathetic situations the stage has ever seen, 
and when properly played the audience would 
be too limp with tears to care a button 
whether the scene held any literary quality 
or not. In fact the over emphasis of the 
literary quality in the plays is as damnable 
as the bad acting we see so often in them, 
and as answerable for the fact that they are 
performed so infrequently. The actor's 
"mouthing" of his resonant speech, and his 
love for his bell-like tones befogs the issue, 
and is cousin indeed to the "reading in" by 

1:77 a 



grave college professors of meanings the 
dramatist "wotted not of." 

The famous "To be or not to be" soliloquy 
is a striking instance of a cardinal error in- 
dulged in by scholarly actors, LL.D.'s, B.A.'s, 
etc., etc. Their countless discussions as to 
the correct emphasis in reading must have 
caused Shakespeare to wake again with 
laughing. Correct reading is only an ex- 
traneous thing in acting. Though neces- 
sary in verse, it should never become para- 
mount to the principal work in hand, which 
is to convey the "thought" of a scene by 
showing the audience quite clearly, the sub- 
ject in the mind of the character, regardless 
of what he or she is saying at the moment. 
Thus when Hamlet in welcoming Horatio 
says — "We'll teach you to drink deep ere 
you depart" his mind is wondering at the 
fact that the court can follow its usual bent, 
and, Great God ! his mother can ask him why 
he grieves for his father who is only two 
months dead. ^'Nay, not so much, not two." 
If this method is followed in "To be or not 
to be," silly discussion as to emphasis must 
cease and the principal point, namely, that 
the speech is a psychological reasoning upon 
"suicide," would be brought out. When 
this is done an actor may defy his severest 

1:783 



critic, — nay, even his best friend to dis- 
cover what emphasis he employs because he 
has succeeded in making his audience "un- 
conscious" as they should be — his plaything 
for the moment, to laugh or cry as he bids 
them. He must conquer them to live — else 
he is eaten. It is the tamer in a cage with a 
lion. 

As it is probable that Bacon visited Venice 
and certainly Shakespeare did not, it is easy 
to surmise that William gleaned from him 
any necessary knowledge regarding detail 
of '"locale," and over a drink in an inn have 
Bacon correct the startling error of calling 
Bleecker Street, Houston. Further, it is 
probable that as Dr. Brandes points out 
Shakespeare cribbed bodily the plot of the 
*' Merchant" as a good artist takes what he 
needs — just as he did the plot of "Hamlet" 
from Saxo Grammaticus. His "treatment," 
not his plot, or his poetry, made his success 
theatrically. Anyone might have thought of 
Ibsen's plot of the "Master Builder," but who 
could have given it that treatment .^^ 

An amusing instance of theatre versus 
literature, or at least an attempt at litera- 
ture occurred when Sir Herbert Tree invited 
a dozen men to hear a play that Zangwill 
wrote called "The War God." Zangwill 

l792 



evidently conscious at last, of a fact which 
critics had been trying to point out to him 
for years, namely, that he had never written 
a play in prose, this time attempted one in 
verse. In his anxiety to write verse, he took 
the unfortunate drama, throttled it and threw 
it into the street. The different men present 
when asked their opinion upon the play said 
variously "I like it." "It interested me 
immensely." "I thought it most engrossing." 
"I was most favorably impressed," etc., etc. 
Lawrence Irving suggested that it might 
have been better if written in prose. When 
our opinion was asked, the sense of polite- 
ness, compelling us to live up to the tradi- 
tion, that we are cowboys over here, made 
us bluntly declare that it was not a play at 
all, pointing out that the man, in his desire 
to show that he could write verse, which, 
incidentally, "The Duchess" would have 
been ashamed of, had forgotten the drama, 
and, as an illustration, reminded the gentle- 
men present that Sir Herbert Tree had a 
play on in his theatre then by Mr. Shake- 
speare, namely, "Henry VIII," and, in that, 
the author had never presumed to suppress 
drama for anything he had to say, however 
poetic. The curtain is not up two minutes 
in "Henry VIII" when we have the arrest 
CSo] 



of Buckingham, and although Mr. Zangwill's 
play was a struggle between the God of War 
and the God of Peace, there was no conflict 
of any sort, either physical or mental. " Henry 
VlII" ran 360 nights and Zangwill's play ran 
for two performances! Good poetry didn't 
make William here, any more than bad 
poetry ruined Israel. Qne observed the 
"theatre," the other ignored it. One could 
go on giving countless instances, but, after all, 
it is useless for those with a petty fogging 
pedantic attitude toward either the stage or 
literature would not understand. 

So, may we have done with literary speeches 
or authors' opinions, at the expense of the 
theatre — they are charging themselves a 
heavy price — the short life of their work. 

Shaw constantly interrupts the direct ac- 
tion of his plays, more especially his latter 
work, to give his opinions — amateur so- 
ciology worthy of an idle afternoon in Hyde 
Park — whilst Strindberg's respect for the 
"theatre" is shown not only by an abso- 
lutely "non-literary" treatment in "The 
Father," but, further, he never discusses his 
subject in the plot; therefore, he never says 
a word against the unconscious tyranny of 
women, hut shows it, 

Shakespeare after all made his own Ian- 



guage. He did not need schools to give him 
that, and any knowledge of medicine or law 
which his plays betray, books of reference 
could have given to a puppet. As Frank 
Harris points out: ** Shakespeare took a low 
Dutch dialect, rescued it from oblivion and 
enriched it some seven or eight hundred 
words:" and if a digression may be permitted, 
we would like to add that it is a poet's busi- 
ness to dally with a language in the sense of 
attempting to correct it: that it is the height 
of presumptuous ignorance for a successful 
ironmaster or an adventurous politician to 
dare to correct the spelling of it. We are 
treated by these gentlemen, who should be 
knitting in the marketplace, to the benign 
advice that we shall spell the glorious word 
"night" n-i-t-e, thus robbing the word of 
its splendid dignity, sullying its whole sig- 
nificance, and further ridiculing its silent 
mystery. 

Therefore, in conclusion may we d^are to 
hope that the pedantry which denies "crea- 
tive genius" is answered. Moral: a college 
professor after all has one thing in common 
with a genius — he is born not made. 

A had liver sometimes produces a great 
philosopher. 



BETWEEN OURSELVES 

I DARE say it came from looking into the 
fire so long. Hickory logs properly used are 
seductive things, and as the sea will produce 
strange things if gazed upon long enough, I 
presume we must not be surprised when a 
wood fire turns conjurer. At any rate, with- 
out further preamble — there, as I live, 
before me, rolled out from the ashes a human 
heart, throbbing for all the world as though 
it were feebly gasping for air. I blinked in 
a bewildered way, thinking, "Now you are 
indeed mad," yet hoping it would only prove 
to be the phantom result of after-dining 
napping — yet no — I was awake right enough 
— but I had no time for further amazement, 
for lo ! it began to speak — and amazement 
changed to a feeling of fascinated horror. 

"You look very comfortable sitting there." 
(A deep hole in its side seemed to give it 
utterance — and, looking closer, I found it 
covered with many, many tiny holes like pin 
pricks — oh ! so many — and they looked for 
all the world like little wounds.) It con- 

CSS 3 



tinued, "If a casual acquaintance — or even 
a friend — entered this room now, they would 
think you were happy and at peace with all 
the world" — Umph! If I could only laugh. 
(It really seemed to stretch itself wearily in 
the ashes.) "'I suppose you're surprised that 
I've come to have a talk with you — well, 
you needn't be, and, for goodness sake, don't 
look so idiotically amazed. Goodness knows 
you've taken me out of my peaceful home 
often enough, and offered me freely in the 
market place," (This with a marked note of 
irritation.) "May I not leave it now for a 
sensible reason — for I certainly hope that 
after we've finished this chat — at least after 
I've finished talking and you've listened in- 
tently enough — I may go back in peace to 
your breast and assume my proper, normal, 
and sane — mark you, I said sane, functions." 
My attitude became befittingly meek. It 
continued — with a nasty note of derision 
creeping into its tone — "Of course, I never 
could understand why you felt it necessary, 
upon all occasions, including holidays, to 
drag me forth into the blinding sun, and 
never, by any chance, grant me the courtesy 
of 'by your leave,' or 'if you don't mind,' 
or even 'to oblige me,' but no — your daz- 
zling ego put the reins into your own hands 



for, of course, you, of all people, must do 
everything from the head. The head indeed! 
(The scorn here sent sparks up the chimney.) 
Then, sneeringly, ^'O, you think the head 
manages so well — you fool ! — women have 
none, yet observe how well they manage — 
and as for your head, dear me, you never 
apply it at all — dreaming isn't using it, my 
boy. You spend your time flattering yourself 
because you don't sneer. Your inaction 
brings defeat, and then, with lordly imperti- 
nence and crass ignorance, you cast the blame 
at my door, whereas, as a matter of fact, in 
all important things, you consult neither your 
head nor myself — in fact — looking at you 
again (this in a loathsome, critical tone) I 
rather suspect that your chief adviser and 
boon companion is your liver" — A shocked 
expression here seemed to make no impression 
whatever, for the scathing tone only deep- 
ened. "Pray, don't think for a moment that 
because the liver and myself are neighbors 
that we are friends. As a matter of fact, we 
have not even a speaking acquaintance — I 
help it of course as I do the rest of your body 
— but that's only my duty. However, that's 
a digression. To resume — what I want to 
talk about, or really, to complain of, is your 
treatment of me. 

C8S3 



"Time and time again, as long as I can 
remember, I have implored you to let me 
rest in peace. I found great pleasure in at- 
tending to my duties, and asked for nothing 
— except a little moderate exercise — and 
that only to enable me to take better care of 
you, but no — I must be dragged out to 
meet this one, and that, — at one time it's 
what you call a 'pal.' Oh!" (with a terrible 
groan). "How full your youth was of those! 
Why didn't you use them all just for com- 
panionship? That's all they did with you. 
Why bring me into it ? Every time you took 
me out and carelessly handed me over to 
one of those, I was dropped just as carelessly 
on the floor, and sometimes even on the 
street, although I'll admit that it was in your 
adventure with the opposite sex that I in- 
variably found myself on the pavement, — 
generally in the gutter, — at the mercy of 
taxis, cabs, and drays, — my only friend a 
prowling dog; somehow they always seemed 
to understand, and, after a sniff or two, they 
would help me find the way home. The only 
time you've ever given me human treatment 
was when you were ill — then, sometimes 
we'd have a real chat. But, when you were 
well, and could go out into the crowd, then 
the fatiguing grind began all over again. 

i: 86 3 



How I loved your chance acquaintances, and 
even your enemies! Whilst you thought of 
them I got a real rest, — but your friends — 
really, although I know you are very stupid 
— even you must laugh now when you look 
back; there were one or two real ones. How 
gladly Fd have gone to them. But, of course, 
being a stupid ass, you took from them and 
gave nothing in return." (Here I shifted 
uneasily and attempted an expostulation, but 
a sort of dignity the thing took on, stopped 
me.) "Why won't you ever learn that men 
use each other, and that the one who cares 
the most always gets the worst of it.? It's 
amusing to see the unconscious bullying that 
goes on amongst you. It's really strange, 
but your friendships are not a bit different 
from your love affairs. You meet a man. 
The new personality strikes — each bored 
with his list of friends — and you go through 
each other rapidly. Of course, there's a 
moment — the confessional stage — when you 
both think that this time it's for life. I know 
you do, poor fool, and then very gradually 
you become bored again. The stories and 
adventures are repeated, a trifle stale now. 
You see faults in each other, and then — I 
breathe a sigh of relief as I find myself back 
at home in my quiet, cosy nest. But, alas! 

1:873 



I know (this in a very mournful tone) that 
you won't allow me to rest for very long. 
Sometimes I wonder if I resent the /Pals' 
more than I do the love affairs, for the men 
can hurt too. But, after all, there's no dif- 
ference, as I've told you; they are just like 
love affairs, though, of course, really the 
women hurt the most, though what I'm so 
very indignant about is that I never got any 
real enjoyment out of it. 

"Once or twice you've really fooled even 
me. Once, particularly, and it's difficult to 
refrain from profanity when I look at you 
and think what I went through then. Don't 
you realize that I have serious work to do in 
your body? And don't you realize that it's 
quite impossible to do it when you bounce 
me around like a rubber ball.'' Oh my! Oh 
my! What I went through in that particular 
case — taken out — laid at her feet — only 
to be trampled on. Then, sometimes she'd 
look down at me and a sense of pity would 
come over her, I suppose. At any rate she'd 
warm me in her soft hands and sometimes, 
only sometimes, she'd put me in her breast, 
and I admit that was quite wonderful. But, 
of course, I only got in there when you cared 
least. Why in the name of common sense 
you didn't keep the ball whilst it was in your 
C 88 3 



hands, I can't understand. You had her 
heart — wasn't that good enough for you ? 
Her breast was wonderful, I admit. I was 
quite comfortable — but no ! instead of play- 
ing your hand like a man, you must flounder 
around at her feet; let her see that she had 
you, and then, of course, I was thrown out 
again — and generally the weather was cold. 
Don't you realize that woman isn't old 
enough yet to be given power? No. Of 
course you must tell her that she's wonderful 
and that you're a weak fool. Then she, like 
an ass, believes that, and thinks you smaller 
than any man she knows. Or worse still, 
you have her kick me out over some stupid 
quarrel. She talks rot and is unreasonable, 
and you, like the perfect fool you are, must 
needs try to reason with her. You talk logic 
instead of listening quietly — logic to a 
woman ! ! — and worse, a woman in love with 
you. Several times I've started to talk with 
your brain on this particular case, but ye 
gods! it was worse than your liver, — and 
all the time I'm bounced back and forth be- 
tween the two of you quite as though I were 
made of clay — my work all going to ruin, and 
complaints pouring in all day from the rest 
of your body, just as though / were the loafer. 
"And the strange places I'd find myself — 



now at the foot of a mountain — again, on 
the floor of a motor car, stepped on, wedged 
in the door, or rolled into the gutter. When 
you two quarreled it was all one to you both. 
I could take care of myself as far as you were 
concerned. Upon my word, it's disgraceful. 
How you ever expect me to feel, to be able 
to give anything when I really care — I don't 
know, it's beyond me. For, of course, you 
know the day will come when I will care. 
I wonder if you know just the kind of emo- 
tion it will be? I doubt it — though I'll 
tell you this much about it. For the first 
time, what you are pleased to call your brain, 
and myself, will be really friends, and in the 
meanwhile, I wish you'd stop staring moodily 
at me, and instead, have just a little politeness. 
Pick me up now, out of the ashes, and for 
once handle me a little tenderly, and gently 
place me back where I belong, and get the 
idea out of your head that it's dark and lonely 
in there. It isn't. On the contrary, it's 
rather warm and cosy — not half a bad sort 
of breast, if you'd give it half a chance, and 
do remember, that I'm simply aching for a 
goody long rest. And please look long and 
well before you take me out again for what 
you call a 'pal' and, as for a woman, — 
well, you'll know when I want to come out 



for *her/ for I'll thump and thump as 
though to break your side — even you will 
understand — and FU send you back instead 
such a gentle, sweet, little heart that you'll 
tremble every day in wonderment of your 
luck, and gaze with eyes of awe upon a world 
that can bring you so much happiness." 



The truth is very strange — the only way 

to depend upon not finding it is to 

consort with mediocrity. 



1:913 



ARTISTIC REASONING* 

By Bernard Shaw ? 

It is so annoying that just as I had filled 
my knapsack with ink and opinions to hurry 
to the front and persuade our soldiers to shoot 
their officers in the back and go home, that 
I must turn my attention to this man Daly 
again. Ever since I first heard of him he 
has been a thorn in my side. 

Some eleven or twelve years ago, when 
anyone could do my plays without the slight- 
est difficulty, certainly without troubling to 
get my consent, this man conceived the idea 
of producing "Candida." My books were 
quietly reposing in the dust on Brentano's 
shelves, and my opinions then hit no one 
except the casual passerby in Hyde Park. 

This production of "Candida" was pro- 
duced in the lowest possible manner. Bored 
with bad parts and bad plays, this insane 
man staged my masterpiece with a capital 

* This was written at the time of Mr. Daly's revival of the 
Shaw plays which occasioned Mr. Shaw's refusal to allow Mr. Daly 
to continue to act in them. 

1:923 



of ^350.00 and although I tried to discourage 
him by charging him ten per cent of the gross 
receipts as a royalty (being a humanitarian 
and an up-lifter of the theatre I believe in 
charging a higher royalty than any other 
author) nevertheless, he blundered on and 
pawned his insurance papers, and borrowed 
money from his friends where'er he could 
to continue the run of the play. Had he a 
grain of sense he would have abandoned it 
and not grubbed his way through the dirt. 

This production proved successful, how- 
ever, despite his low methods, and he then 
followed it with "A Man of Destiny," "How 
He Lied to Her Husband," and "You Never 
Can Tell." By this time we realized in 
London that it was the rain that caused us to 
fail when we had attempted the plays before, 
and so we tried again, and this time we were 
more or less successful. I even risked some 
ha'pence myself, although naturally, I did 
not charge our Court Theatre venture the 
ten per cent royalty. 

Daly followed "You Never Can Tell" 
with John Bull's "Other Island," and failed. 
Imagine that now! Failed with one of my 
plays, despite the fact that the play dealt 
with Catholicism, Protestantism and the land 
question, subjects upon which the New York 

[193 3 



public mind seethes with interest. How could 
I forgive him that failure? And yet I tried. 
After all, his one failure ruined him while I 
still had my ten per cent of the gross. 

He then produced "Mrs. Warren's Pro- 
fession", and he would have succeeded with 
that had he not courted failure by dubbing 
my friend Antony Comstock, a "genial come- 
dian." Later he took to the road with "You 
Never Can Tell", and during his road tour, 
for a time, I ceased to demand my ten per 
cent, and if any further proof is necessary 
that this man Daly is mad, instead of keep- 
ing that ten per cent for himself, he put it to 
the credit of the books so that his manager, 
a kind hearted Brooklyn politician, benefited. 

Then he produced "Arms and the Man," 
and again he succeeded, although continually 
annoying me by never following my advice. 

Also, he persuaded Frederick Whitney to 
stage "Arms and the Man" in London. I 
gave my consent to the performance upon 
condition that I stage the play. At the sec- 
ond rehearsal. Sir ^Charles Wyndham, who, 
by the way, knows nothing about the theatre, 
assured Daly that if the play were given as I 
was rehearsing it, the London critics would 
declare that it was a jolly good thing that it 
had been turned into a musical comedy. The 

1:943 



performance was highly praised by the London 
critics, although Daly's performance was too 
absurd. The London Times, a ridiculously 
conservative sheet, declared that Daly was 
the best "Bluntschli" London had seen, de- 
spite the fact that three Englishmen had 
played the part previously, and James Doug- 
las, in a special article, was silly enough to 
say that he acted as Melba sings and as 
Pavlowa dances. How could I be expected 
to stand that.^ His plan was also to revive 
"Candida" and "You Never Can Tell" in 
London, but that did not suit me, although I 
had promised him that he could do so. Sir 
J. M. Barrie and myself were risking our 
pennies at the Little Theatre and had just 
opened with "Fanny's First Play." We 
could not have a man as irresponsible as 
Daly playing against us in London, so I 
refused my consent to his revival of "Can- 
dida," upon the plea of his age. I pointed out 
that it would be ridiculous for him to attempt 
to look so young, whereupon he answered 
that I was only insulting his make-up box. 
Finally he wore me out until I had to tell 
him the truth, which I did over the telephone. 
I told him that we were uncertain of the 
future of "Fanny's First Play" and had to 
hold "Candida" in reserve for the Little 

1195 3 



Theatre and assured him that we had more 
sagacity than Sir Henry Irving. Irving was 
stupid enough to treat the stage as an .art 
and invited Edwin Booth to ahernate roles 
with him. We could not afford such non- 
sense. I might have consented to Daly tour- 
ing in the provinces, but when he had the 
impertinence to change a piece of business in 
the last act of "Arms and the Man" between 
"Raiena" and "Sergius," then I put my 
foot down. I wrote him that he would never 
do a play of mine again, and certainly I intend 
to keep my word. What do I care if my con- 
tracts are illegal? Why should I have equity 
in them? That would be stupid. I'm a 
sensible man, therefore I make all my con- 
tracts to give Shaw all the best of it and to 
give the other party as little as possible. 

In London we do not permit the actor- 
manager to have anything to say in his 
theatre whatsoever. His only liberty is to 
pay the actors' salaries and the authors' fees. 
If we allowed him freedom he might make a 
success, whereas we manage to fail frequently. 
This annoying man, Daly, proved to me con- 
clusively that the play "The Thunder Bolt" 
would have been a success if handled by a 
genuine producer, and it's very annoying to 
admit that he was right. 

1:963 



Now some producing firm has sprung up 
in New York with the idea of reviving three 
of my plays in which Daly has made a success, 
and they have engaged him to play in these 
revivals, but I shall stop them at any cost. 
Of course, I have no right to stop them. 
My agent in New York has given them a 
contract, but that doesn't matter. I shall 
stop them anyhow. I have cabled my lawyer 
to spare no expense to do so. I cannot have 
Daly commencing a season just as I have 
Barker safely launched at Wallack's Theatre. 
I was immediately apprised by cable of this 
man's intention. Of course, some people 
may be low minded enough to suspect that 
it was Barker who cabled me, but that idea 
must be dismissed at once. How could 
Barker afford to try and stop Daly ^ Barker's 
season, after all, is backed by American 
capital, therefore, how could he afford to 
have this done? What would the American 
gentleman interested for artistic reasons in 
his venture think of him then.^* No! No! 
He is too high-minded, being even as I, a 
humanitarian. One must not be too severe 
regarding the incident of his trying to sell 
Daly the American rights to Ibsen's *' Master 
Builder." Daly was young, a cow-boy in 
art, and required a lesson. 

1:973 



This mad man, Daly, has just cabled me 
that he is going to try next year to land at 
Moscow, Berlin, Paris or London, and see 
whether a group of millionaires will hand 
him 15,000 pounds to teach the local artistic 
idea how to shoot instead of looking for 
cigars in his baggage. Another reason, if it 
is necessary to quote further, why I do not 
want this season to go on is that I fear that 
it may be backed by money made in that low 
born trade, the moving picture business. Of 
course I have no proof of this, but I must 
admit that if the man had some millionaires 
back of him or had a rich wife I might recon- 
sider my decisiion. 

More annoyance. Another cable from this 
troublesome man bidding me fill my artistic 
soul with the inspiration of justice and truth 
instead of bothering myself with notoriety 
and petty meannesses, and this simply be- 
cause I wrote him once that genius without 
moral conduct was a filthy cloak. He asks 
me to write a play for the real theatre and 
bids me leave politics to those who under- 
stand it, and, crowning insult of all, suggests 
that I resign the front page of the daily 
papers to the Kaiser. 

April IQ15. 

1:983 



MORALITY 

That which tends to degrade^ impede or dis- 
courage that which is best in one is immoral. 
That which tends to encourage^ enlighten 
and assist that which is best in one — is 
moral. Hence, one may get one's in- 
spiration from a wanton or one's 
death sentence from a saint. 



1:993 



GOSSIP 

A FABLE 

The Lion was always deeply grieved when 
he thought of his friend, the Bat, because he 
never saw the light. "It is good to look at 
the sun," said he, as he rolled on his back 
and blinked, "even though it sometimes 
hurts your eyes." 

Then he scratched his tawny belly and 
thought for a while. After thinking a very 
long time, he discovered that he was hungry. 
Now, he would have liked a nice fat deer, 
but then, he was comfortable where he was 
— the necessity bored him. 

And so he said, "Skat!" 

Now the Squirrel thought he said "cat" 
and ran to warn her. Then they both climbed 
a nice, comfy, protecting tree. The Squirrel 
was angry, for in climbing the tree he dropped 
an armful of nuts. "It is a pity," he said, 
"for I like nuts," and was always out hunt- 
ing them. 

The Cat looked down from the high, pro- 
C lOO 3 



tecting branch and thought for a long while 
what it could say to the Lion. Then her 
face brightened — she had thought of some- 
thing at last. 

"I have beautiful whiskers, too, just as 
beautiful as yours," said she, but the Lion 
only looked up very bored and said, "What 
does it matter.?" and went on licking his paw, 
because he just then remembered that it was 
bruised. 



Cioi3 



A Letter Written to a New York 
Playwright 

Hotel Matignon, 
Avenue Matignon, 
Paris, VIII. 

Dec. 19, 1919. 

Some three weeks ago Mr. George Mac- 

Lellan sent me the following wire from London : 

* Would you be at liberty play lead ' — — 

— ' open Haymarket Theatre February first 

wire Savoy.' 

I answered that I could arrange it as my 
present contract expires about December 

22d. 

Negotiations followed and you know the 
rest. You refused your consent to my en- 
gagement. Now then an interesting question 
arises: If a man writes a play, undeniably 
he has the right to use his judgment and 
authority in the selection of the cast; but 
when he steals the play from an Austrian, 
withholds the author's name from the play- 
bills, and the said author's royalties — a 
condition made possible only because of the 
C1023 



war — has he the same right ? When a man 
becomes a moral, artistic and material thief, 
has he the right to prevent an actor from a 
possible honest, artistic and material success? 
It seems strange — but it is so since you 
decide it, my Emperor. 

Why? Because I pointed out to you where 
your stage direction was amateurish when 

you staged ' -'and yet you accepted 

my suggestions, but with battle instead of 
gratitude: also, have you forgotten the bud- 
ding period of your career as dramatist ? The 
hours I spent with thee, dear Raffles — cor- 
recting your childish efforts and patiently 
teaching you construction are as a string of 
smiles to me, with your present contemptible 
action reminding me of your small soul. 

Why people continually caress a scorpion 
when they want a kiss is beyond me, but have 
it your own way. You asked for it and so I 
send you a letter of truth. You might have 
suspected that I would not take a blow lying 
down. 

Don't sue — I haven't any money, and 
when I get some, I'll take care that my cred- 
itors get it before you. But, upon my return 
home, you may advance, Falstaff, and throw 
thy ponderous jellied self upon my mercy. 



December 28, 1916 
Mr. Arnold Daly, 
The Fulton Theatre, 
West 46th Street, 
New York City. 

My dear Sir: 

With my wile and four friends I saw "The 
Master" last Tuesday evening, and I want 
to tell you that I never was so disgusted in 
my life. What is the purpose of it all? Is it 
to show the superiority of the morals of the 
East over the West ? Is it to uphold practis- 
ing medicine or surgery without a state 
certificate.? Is it to advocate license to im- 
morality? What is it? I confess I don't 
know. 

I read the other day of a business house 
that has in its window these words: "Your 
money is simply on deposit here until you are 
satisfied." It would be a good motto for all 
theatres, and for the present for the Fulton 
in particular. 

The only bright streak in an otherwise 
dark night was the small house, together with 
your "between the acts" speech — "Two 
meals a day may be good for the soul, but 
it's hard on the body." In this you paid a 
C 104 3 



compliment to the New York theatre-going 
pubHc. 

Give us something good and wholesome, 
or else label your play in such a way that the 
unsuspecting public will know what it is 
buying. 

Very truly yours, 
Robert Gordon McGregor. 



December 30th, 1916. 

THE ANSWER 

My dear Dr. McGregor: 

Since you make a business of preaching 
the Word of God, it is quite natural that 
you do not understand it. The dusty neces- 
sity of scraping in trade chokes the soul. And 
since culture, and gentleness too, are a part 
of your profession, one easily understands 
how greatly — judging by your rudeness — 
you misunderstand its message. 

The purposes of this play, as you under- 
stand it, would not have been ascribed to it 
even by a private detective. For your en- 
lightenment, therefore, I will spare a moment 
to tell you what the play means. 

It is a denial of the Nietzschean theory. 
It is a plea for the involuntary, as being supe- 



rior to the voluntary. If the State guards the 
individual too much, it loses his best endeavor. 
Even sloth is a good thing — it gives you 
something to get out of. 

Further, the play shows the bitter truism 
that the weak destroy the strong, for they 
not only prey upon them — they drag them 
down. 

Come and sit at my feet some night and 
I will teach you wisdom. 



doe] 



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